


A Cloak of Yellow, A Cloak of Grey

by CynicwithaSecret



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cleganebowl???, F/M, Involvement of Cloaks, Knives, Marriage Proposal, Roughness, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicwithaSecret/pseuds/CynicwithaSecret
Summary: “Why not just say the words?” he asked.“This is your only reason?” she scoffed. “Why not? That’s the kind of reason a person gives for taking another slice of bread, not for marriage.”Winterfell, and winter has arrived. A dog asks a wolf princess to marry him. Conflict ensues. Cloaks become involved...somehow. Does the debacle end in violence or love? Who knows? Read on.





	1. The Question

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly based on what (I think) will happen in Season 7 on the show, with some artistic licence taken, of course. Started sometime in March 2017, finished just before the end of Season 7...  
> I take Arya to be about 16-17 at this point, Sandor's about 37.  
> I'm a shipper, so forgive my blind shippiness.  
> First chapter is the shortest. The rest will be longer :)

Winter had truly fallen upon the turrets and grey walls of Winterfell. Sandor watched as snowflakes fell upon the stone ledges and stable rooftops, adding to the layer of white already formed there. The snow lay in his hair and beard, it melted on his clothes and managed to find its way into every doorway and un-shuttered window. Whispers of fear were carried on the cold wind from every peasant and soldier. They all knew that death was coming with this winter from the north, and they all feared it.

Sandor had no fear of death. Not for himself. He feared living on while everyone else was dead, walking alone in a world where the only real treasure he had known was stolen from him. Thinking that made him reach for his hip flask and take a long swig. The burning sensation of ale down his gullet helped a little, but only a little.

He turned away from the snow and headed into the stables. A boy shied away from him in the doorway with big fearful eyes, but Sandor ignored him entirely. In one of the stalls, he caught sight of the messy hair of Arya Stark. She had her back to the doorway, hanging up her saddle and gear. He glanced around, but there was no-one else there now that the boy had made himself scarce. Arya started taking the bridle off her black mare.

Sandor licked his hand and tried to smooth his hair before alerting her to his presence.

“Where were you this morning?” he asked, striding over to lean against the stall door. The smell of horses and damp straw filled his nose.

Arya turned her storm-grey eyes towards him, raising an eyebrow. He had tried not to sound gruff, but sounding any other way was not easy for him.

“As if it’s any of your business. I was out hunting with Meera Reed,” she told him, shrugging.

“That curly-headed one with your brother?” Sandor frowned, thinking of the day Brandon Stark was brought into the castle. It was anyone’s guess how the Reed girl had managed to drag the crippled boy all that distance. There had been a feast that night, like there had been a feast the night after the Brotherhood arrived at the castle gates with Arya.

“That’s her,” Arya was saying, talking about Meera with genuine respect, which was rare enough. “She’s a good hunter, far better than me. As good as most wildlings. Bran thinks very well of her, and Sansa thinks she’s unseemly, which is another good reason for me to like her.”

Sandor watched her unbuckle the bridle and slip the bit out from the mare’s mouth. She may have been dressed like a boy, in fine leather and britches with her little sword at her hip, but he still thought she was pretty. Not beautiful or shapely like Sansa, but pretty in her own, wild way. If only she would let him, he would have lifted her up against the stable wall and ripped her tunic off. He would have kissed her until she begged him to stop.

However, soon after he thought about that, the constant worry chewing on his mind rose up again.

“Wolf girl,” he said as softly as he could, glancing around the stable again. “I’ve been thinking…”

Arya smirked cheekily. “You were thinking? That can’t be good,” she laughed, before grabbing her riding gear and opening the stall door. Her mare nickered. Sandor rolled his eyes and grabbed her shoulder to stop her walking outside.

“Just listen,” he hissed, leaning closer. Arya pushed his hand away and waited.

“Well?” she demanded. “Hurry up before winter’s over.”

Sandor cursed internally and forced himself to spit the words out. This was far harder than he thought it would be. “I’ve been thinking we should get married,” he whispered seriously.

The Stark girl did a double take. At first she was simply surprised, blinking out of a lack of comprehension. But then, in a rush, she recoiled from him and Sandor’s hope drained away.

“You what?” she snapped harshly.

“Don’t make me bloody repeat it,” Sandor said with a grimace. “It was hard enough the first time.”

“Why in seven hells would you say it at all?” Arya said. Her face was so disgusted, he might have suggested they strip naked and pour honey over themselves in front of everyone in the courtyard. “We’ve talked about this. Lots of times.”

“ _You’ve_ talked about this,” he grumbled. “Who gives a fuck if everyone knows about us?”

Of course, he knew very well why Arya was opposed to letting anyone know about the depth of their “friendship”. Mainly, she feared the reaction of her family, Jon in particular, who, in Arya’s mind, would overreact and lose the ability to focus on the coming Great War against the Walkers. She did not want Sandor’s name; she did not want to share his infamous reputation. There was also the fact that she was ashamed of their love, a fact that she did not hesitate to tell him in anger. The shame did not mean she loved him less, though…just that from time to time she hated him almost as much as she loved him.

“I told you, we’ll tell everyone after the war,” Arya reminded him in an angry hiss. “But marriage? To start with, that was the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

“Could have been worse,” Sandor muttered, shrugging and looking at his feet.

“Not likely.” She pulled an exasperated face. “And what made you think I’d ever want to marry you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you opening your legs for me perhaps?” Sandor said pointedly, sticking his hands irritably into his sword belt. “Or saying you love me?”

Arya threw a look both ways and towards the stable doorway. Only a flurry of snow entered, and the wind blew through the walls like a woman wailing. “Shut up,” she warned him. “And don’t talk about this anymore.”

“Is that your answer then?” he glared at her, both of them bristling with irritation. “Just no?”

She did not answer. He saw her jaw clench and her knuckles stand out white as she gripped her riding gear. Those stormy eyes were darkened into rage, shining with emotion. Too fast for him to reach out and stop her, she launched herself towards the doorway.

“Girl…” he growled, but she ignored him.

“You’re a stupid, drunk shit, and I don’t want to look at you,” Arya snapped.

Before the snow or the presence of curious onlookers forced her to hide her face, though, he thought he saw tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. Then she stepped outside and was out of his reach.

_Damn her. Stubborn wolf bitch._

Sandor punched the stable wall in frustration, not caring if it bruised his hand. He reached for his hip flask again and drank, hoping to dull the fear that he would lose the Stark girl out of his own stupidity. Winterfell was beginning to feel not like a strange icy world apart from his own, but a place he could learn to call home. Because of her. Because he loved her. How could he move on now, having spent so much time coming to terms with how much he needed to be with her, to protect her, to watch over her? Accepting that he was in love to begin with had been hard. Accepting that she might actually love him back had been harder. But all the anguish was worth it the first time he mustered the courage to steal a kiss from her…and it was definitely worth it the first time she came to his bed, trembling but still as wild as ever.

It was selfish of him, but it hurt to know that she would always love her family more than him. Her desire to protect them outweighed everything else. Jealousy was somewhat new to Sandor, and it was not a good feeling. It was a feeling for a weaker man. _She bites and snaps and shows her teeth,_ he thought, _but she still cares._

He left the stinking stables and strode out into the courtyard. The snow was getting heavier, so he squinted through the white flurries and turned towards Winterfell’s main buildings. There would be a fire burning inside, and food too, maybe even roast chicken.

Tipping the last drops from his flask as he walked, Sandor thought over what Arya had said in response to his rash proposal. He realised with a start that she had never explicitly said no. His hope rekindled. Maybe, he thought, there might still be a chance for a dog to wed a wolf princess.

Just maybe…


	2. The First Answer

Arya avoided her sworn protector for the rest of the day.

She prided herself on being good at that – at avoiding people. She could vanish for an entire day in the castle and not be seen by anyone, sometimes without even having to use one of the faces she stole from the House of Black and White a year ago. Sometimes she liked that – being invisible, able to listen to all the gossip of the serving girls or watch warriors who knew her as a child spar in the yard, never even glancing in her direction. Arya was not shy, and not fond of keeping her voice down, but being a shadow had its appeal. Being a shadow meant she was not a princess, and had no duty to anyone. It was freedom.

So, after the man who had once been the Hound proposed to her, Arya remained a shadow, unnoticed despite anyone’s attempts to find her. She visited Bran for a while and talked to him and Meera briefly before escaping off to Godswood to polish Needle and practise water dancing. Then she spent some time posing as a sickly peasant girl, but the gossip among the smallfolk was mundane, and the snow was falling very heavily by that point, so Arya gave up and reappeared as herself for supper.

Sansa was sitting primly at the head table, in the lord’s chair since King Jon was away, and Bran sat beside her, morosely picking at his food. Arya tried to pretend not to notice that Sandor was sitting in the hall as well, among his temporary Brothers, and she sat next to Sansa. There were several visitors at other tables, including Lyanna Mormont wearing thick furs, some grimy wildlings, loud members of the Brotherhood without Banners and shining knights of the Vale.

“Where is it you vanish to throughout the day?” her sister was asking curiously. “I had people looking for you, earlier, but no-one had a notion where to search.”

Arya shrugged and cut herself a slice of venison from the red haunch in the middle of the table. A servant poured some water. Sansa sighed.

“Fine, keep your secrets.” She picked at the limp vegetables on her plate.

“Arya was hunting with Meera this morning, and with me later in the day,” Bran cut in quietly.

He had dark rings under his eyes, as if he had not slept in days. Both Stark girls looked at him with concern in their eyes. Perhaps because of this, their brother turned solemnly to his meal and did not meet either of their gazes.

“Are you feeling okay, Bran?” Arya asked.

“Of course. The…the visions take their toll, that’s all. But I’ve been sleeping better recently. Having a bed helps.”

They all smiled, and Sansa patted his hand. Then she sniffed and returned to Arya with a cursory nod, pulling a tiny wrapped scroll with a broken Stark seal out of her sleeve.

“There was raven from Jon. That’s why I was looking for you. Thought you might want to read it.”

Arya blinked, dropped her knife and snatched the letter from Sansa. She skimmed the message quickly. _Arrived safely…met with the Dragon Queen…miss you all…try to ensure the wildling clans are kept apart…keep the peace…all my love, Jon._

It was brief, but a raven could only carry so many words.

“Have you seen him, Bran?” Arya asked abruptly. “Have you seen Jon at the meeting?”

Her brother nodded, a strange distant look on his face, the far-away look she was becoming used to but did not like. It was as if Bran was drifting into a world she could not understand, one which would swallow him if he let it.

“Is she as beautiful as they say?” asked Sansa. “With silver hair and purple eyes? The last Targaryen…imagine how lonely it must be to be the last of something…”

Arya rolled her eyes, but Bran smiled slightly in a sad sort of way, as if he knew something no-one else did.

“She is beautiful. And not very lonely. Jon and she…” He drifted off. “There are things I need to tell all of you, but not now.”

“What things?” Arya frowned, disliking his dark expression. “Bran?”

“I will tell you, but not now. It’s not the right time or place.”

“But…”

“I’m sure Bran has his reasons for waiting to tell us, Arya,” Sansa said in a diplomatic tone. “He’s not the only one here, after all, who has secrets yet to tell.”

The look exchanged between the sisters then was a tense one, and Arya was annoyed that she was the one who looked away first. Sansa’s self-assured, smug smile revealed that she had suspicions, and Arya felt her ears becoming hot with embarrassment and anger. Despite being closer to Sansa now than they ever had been while they were children, Arya still could sense that her older sister disapproved of almost everything she did and everything she was. In return, Arya disliked the way Sansa calculated every word she said to the northern lords and Winterfell’s guests. It was as if she was playing a game, not entirely speaking her mind, keeping her thoughts concealed behind pretty smiles and flattery.

Thinking of secrets, she sneaked a glance down the hall and, without meaning to, locked eyes with Sandor. He was staring up at her over the rim of a mug with froth in his beard. Arya thought about licking the froth away, then quickly forced herself not to think about that, and returned to her meal.

She got up less than half an hour later, not long after Sansa retired to her chambers and immediately after Bran was carried from the hall to visit the godswood. Across the hall, Sandor did the same. Arya met his gaze directly, and walked out of the hall, ascending the castle stairs.

The castle was cold as always, and austere in its coldness, just as she remembered. She entered her parents’ old bedroom, where Jon slept now, her mind swimming with childish memories of games and laughter and warmth. The hearth was dead, with cold ash smeared over half-burnt chips of wood. Arya stroked the wolf fur on the bedding, enjoying its softness under her palm. On purpose, she had left the door wide open, so Sandor would have no difficulty finding her. She listened to his metallic footsteps and the creak of the door shutting before either of them spoke to acknowledge the fact that they were alone.

“About what I said…I shouldn’t have said it,” he muttered, somewhat insincerely.

“I shouldn’t have called you a drunk shit,” she replied, turning to watch him.

Standing right before the door, he was wary, gauging her mood. Seeing that she was currently unlikely to attempt to skewer him or try to rip his tongue from his mouth, Sandor’s dark eyes warmed a fraction. Arya sat on the bed and inclined her head towards the soft fur in invitation, not quite smiling but not glaring either.

“My she-wolf,” he mumbled possessively, lowering his bulk onto the bed and wrapping his arm around her waist. Their breath mingled. She stroked his scarred cheek, resting her head against his strong shoulder.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Arya sighed.

“What’s that?” His deep voice rumbled near her ear.

“You asked a while ago about the scars here,” she began reluctantly, raising her head from his shoulder and resting her hand over her midriff. “I didn’t want to tell you how I got them, before, but I will now.” He had probably guessed already, but he waited for her to continue, so she did. “I was stabbed.”

The arm around her waist tensed. He grabbed her wrist hard.

“Who?” he demanded, his eyes gleaming with violence and threats. “Who did that to you? Tell me. I’ll pull his guts out through his throat. I’ll make the fucker chew his own eyes.”

She shook her head with a smug grin. “You’re a year too late. _She’s_ already dead,” Arya informed him. “I cut her face off in as payment for the debt she owed me.”

Sandor blinked, and then gave her a rare toothy smile, roughly stroking her arm, his gaze drifting to her mouth. She had learned to recognise the hunger in his smile.

“I wish I could have seen that,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “I wish I could have watched you do that.” His lips were warm, his beard was bristly, and he smelled of metal and leather and sweat.

“Listen,” she insisted. “I’m telling you this for a reason.”

Sandor leaned back again, still looking at her with half-lidded eyes as if she was the only thing he desired in all the world. The power made her feel drunk, but it could not make this any less uncomfortable.

“What is it, girl?” he asked. “You look like someone pissed in your wine.”

“The debt she owed me…” Arya swallowed, suddenly not able to look directly at him anymore. “It wasn’t just for the pain of the wounds. The knife went into my womb. I didn’t know it at first, but the new maester here told me I probably can’t ever bear children. I’m not really a woman anymore. Now that you know, you’ll want to take back your proposal.”

There was quiet for a moment. Arya studied the faded grey carpet on the floor, feeling guilty. Then to her surprise, Sandor snorted in an approximation of a laugh. She looked up and glared at him.

“Stop it,” she snapped, shoving his chest. “This isn’t funny.”

He covered his amusement with difficulty. “Might be you’re still a woman, though,” he said, and slipped his hand onto her skinny leg. “I’ve had proof of that.”

“Shut up,” Arya complained, slapping his hand away. “Don’t you get it? I am nothing but death. You should take back your stupid question.”

Sandor did not hesitate. “No.” He shook his head, and some greasy locks of midnight hair slipped away from the puckered bald patch, and his torn ear. “For fuck’s sake, girl, do you think I want a pretty little wife to sing and bear me sons and run a bloody household?”

“Isn’t that what all men want?” she shrugged, trying to sound neutral.

“If I wanted those things, I wouldn’t be here with you.” Sandor’s tone grew darker, his eyes distant with bitterness. “My brother’s rats can have my family keep and burn it to the ground for all I care. I’ve never wanted the crumbling shit-hole. Too many memories.”

“And you’ve never wanted sons?” Arya pressed on.

“Me, a father? There’s a thought to make the bravest men piss themselves.”

At this point he unwrapped his arm from around her waist and grabbed his hipflask, only to discover it was empty. Arya watched him dubiously. They had never truly lied to each other, but she was sure that somewhere deep within, he secretly hoped for a normal life; the kind which involved a hearth and a loving family. Perhaps they were both too far gone for that kind of normality. Besides, both of them were probably going to die before the end of the winter, happy or not.

She bit her lip in frustration. “Why ask me to be your wife, then?” she thought aloud.

He just shrugged. “I thought if your belly started swelling with our pup inside you, the whelp ought to have a name.”

“Better to be a Snow than a Clegane,” Arya pointed out dismissively.

“Well,” he said, and punctuated his words by tossing his empty flask against the wall, “it seems that’s not happening now, anyway. No more worries.”

Arya got to her feet and paced, the tension and vulnerability of the conversation making her uneasy. When had she started being so open with him? Strange, how time could change a heart. Once she had hated him so much it made her blood boil just to picture his ugly burnt face. Now, the same thought was a comfort. She looked out the window, where snow covered everything in its icy embrace.

“I’ve never wanted to be a lady or have children,” she continued. “It doesn’t bother me that I can’t. But I thought that was what you were asking, earlier. I thought you…seven hells, I don’t know, I just wasn’t expecting it.” Arya blinked and shook off unwelcome fears. She smirked and turned back into the room. “And it was a shit proposal,” she added.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s ever good enough for you,” he growled, but she could tell his anger was just a mask.

“Not true,” she claimed. “You just didn’t try.”

“I’m not a fucking bard,” he said decidedly. “You want a song about love, go find yourself a minstrel.”

Arya walked back over to where he was sitting, arms folded. He regarded her with an intent but irritated expression.

“I don’t want a song,” she teased. “You still could have got down on one knee, or said how much you need me, or told me how my eyes remind you of the sea…”

Sandor seized her by her shoulders and crushed his mouth against hers, effectively ending her teasing. His kiss was as hard and uncompromising as always. Arya tilted her head and kissed him back, flinging her arm around his neck. His tongue tasted of alcohol, and his mouth was warm. Heat flooded her skin, sending shivers of the good kind down her spine. She felt the warmth of his legs pressed against her legs, the powerful muscles under his clothes and armour. Her pulse was loud in her head, a thundering beat in harmony with his.

He released her then with a sigh.

“How’s that?” Sandor grinned, his eyes shining with desire. Arya shrugged and lifted herself onto his lap.

“Better,” she told him.

“You never actually answered me, she-wolf,” he pointed out, pushing her messy fringe back from her face. She pressed her cheek to his big hand.

“My answer is no,” Arya said, and his hand dropped away.

“Thought it was worth having a go,” he grouched, “At the whole sappy drooling lover thing, I mean.”

She snorted and punched his arm hard. “Don’t do it again,” she warned him. “Anyway, my family hasn’t had the best luck when it comes to marriages recently. You should be glad not to wed a Stark.”

Thinking of Robb, her mind filled with the memory of Grey Wind’s head sewn onto his corpse, the Freys chanting _King in the North_ and the men screaming in pain all around her. The sky had been black and flame red. Nothing had existed but pain, tearing her apart from the inside, leaving a husk of empty grief which turned into a torrent of rage and hate. Every hurt was a lesson, and each one had made her stronger in the end.

Sandor stroked her back, and Arya traced the ridges of his new armour with her fingernails. She assumed that he knew the dark place her mind had gone, because he tried to remind her of something far cheerier. “Do you remember those Freys we chopped up after the Twins?” he asked.

She leaned closer and pressed her lips to his good cheek, at the same time reaching for his belt. “Do you remember I took your knife?” she replied, and lifted his blade to his throat. Sandor bit his bottom lip and tightened his arms around her, amused.

“You stuck the bastard so fast I barely got over in time,” he recollected.

“But you did.”

Her blood rushing from the memory of sinking cold metal into that first man’s neck over and over again, Arya closed her teeth gently over Sandor’s bottom lip. Still with the blade pressed to his skin, she looked into his eyes and saw her own bloodlust reflected there. He was her mirror, she thought, her own reflection, so similar at times it was disturbing. There was little wonder that she had been so reluctant to admit it at first. But the truth was undeniable; no-one understood her now like he did, not even Jon, who still saw her as a rebellious little sister who dreamed of being a fighter. Sandor shared her hates and her instincts, knowing what she was thinking almost the same moment she did herself.

She dug her teeth into Sandor’s lip, drawing a bead of blood, and he lurched back with a curse.

“Vicious bitch,” he spat.

Arya grinned, tasting the salty tang of his blood on her tongue. She put the knife between her teeth and reached for his belt again, this time with far less violent intentions.

“Le’ me make i’ up ‘o you,” she tried to say. Before she could unlace his britches, however, Sandor grabbed her by the waist and forcefully flipped her onto the bed. Wolf fur tickled the back of her neck and ears.

“Oi!” she complained, but he kissed her neck anyway, and shifted his body partially on top of her, effectively pinning her in place.

“I’d prefer to make it up to you,” he snarled, roughly cupping one of her breasts through her leather tunic. The feeling made heat rise between her legs. Arya took the knife from between her teeth and placed it between Sandor’s instead, smiling in invitation.

It was at this moment that the door suddenly creaked open.

_SHIT._

Arya tried to spring off the bed as fast as possible, but Sandor was much slower and his weight on her leg trapped her. A serving girl came into the room, a young one of no more than twelve years, and her eyes grew as wide as silver platters. The girl ducked her head at once and backed away very quickly, squeaking out a hundred apologies.

Arya kicked Sandor at once, and he swore loudly. Unpinned, she leapt from the bed to chase after the unfortunate girl.

“Wolf girl, leave her.”

“No fucking way!”

“You don’t know she’ll even tell anyone…”

But Arya was already out the door, scanning the corridor and spying the frayed edge of the girl’s skirts disappearing around the corner to her right. Moving with the speed of the truly embarrassed, Arya raced after her. The girl was running, but Arya still caught her. She grabbed the servant’s collar and shoved her against the wall, drawing Needle with a swishing noise.

“Please, please, don’t…” the girl pleaded, before Arya covered her mouth and shut her up.

“You saw nothing, understand?” she told the girl. “Nothing. Speak a word to anyone and I will know. If you’re loyal to my family and my brother at all, you’ll not breathe about this.”

The girl nodded fearfully. Arya sheathed Needle and released her. She was just a child. At twelve, Arya had killed a boy to escape the Red Keep and survived for months on the road with men far more dangerous than herself. This one seemed so much younger than she had ever been.

“Go,” Arya snapped, and the girl did not require a second order.

She leaned against the wall for a moment, well aware that rumours were spreading regardless of how many servants she threatened. Gossip among the smallfolk held no weight with most so-called “honourable” highborn lords and ladies, but an idea often led to suspicion, and Arya was anxious how Jon would react if he found out. It barely made sense to _her_ why she wanted Sandor – how could she ever explain it to her sensible brother?

“Arya?”

The curious voice from down the corridor made Arya jump, but it was only Sansa peering from her chamber door.

“What?” the younger of the Stark girls blurted, louder than necessary.

“I heard a shout.” Sansa narrowed her sky-blue eyes. She was in her nightdress, but still every bit the regal lady with perfectly braided amber hair and delicate pale feet under the rim of her skirt. Arya had a smear of mud on her cheek, and her dark, shoulder-length mop was as dishevelled as ever.

“It was nothing,” Arya shrugged unconvincingly.

“Why are you out here on the corridor?” Sansa asked.

“Just adjusting my sword belt,” Arya claimed. “Stupid thing got stuck, that’s why I shouted.” She quickly turned to retreat away.

“Arya,” her older sister’s stern voice stopped her. “Your room is this way, next to mine.”

“I know.”

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.”

“Arya…”

“What?”

“I know there’s something you’re not telling me.” With that, not waiting for her sister to form a defence against this accusation, Sansa turned and shut her door.

“Of course there are things I’m not telling you,” Arya spat, but she was talking to an empty space.

There were things Sansa never said as well, about King’s Landing and the time she spent in the Vale. How was it fair to expect Arya to tell her secrets first, when hers were surely far darker and gorier than Sansa’s? No-one, not even her family, had a right to know her past. No-one. Returning to the lord’s chamber, Arya found Sandor still waiting there, having removed his shoulder guards and most of his armour. He looked from her face down to her feet with a hungry expression. After that business with the servant, Arya was definitely not in a good mood for any exchange of body fluids.

“Get up,” she told him.

“Bolt the door and come here,” he demanded, getting up and trying to pull her into his arms.

“Not now,” she snapped. “And not here. I’m going to my chambers and you are _not_ to follow me.”

He leaned down with pursed lips, but she swiped his arms away and he kissed the empty air.

“Don’t stay in here,” she warned him, and walked out.

There were several laughing Vale knights in blue and silver who paused to greet her, calling her “princess”. Arya nodded curtly in response and, fortunately, Sandor did not follow her immediately. That would have been difficult to explain, and she was becoming very frustrated with the prying eyes of other people. Once she reached her room, Arya took a knife from her boot and angrily dug the blade into a bedpost. The wood splintered and the blade stuck there, the handle trembling.


	3. The Second Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one with (some) graphic violence. Some.

In dreams, he was walking knee-deep in snow. Ice clung to his lashes and the hairs in his nose. A blizzard was raging all around him, lashing at his clothes, and no matter how tightly he clutched his cloak around himself, hailstones ripped through and stung his skin. The hail slashed his forehead, and a stream of blood ran down the left side of his nose. A pity it was the good side, he thought distantly, as if either side of his face was particularly appealing.

Cold and ice and hail falling violently on snow was all that existed, deep white as far as he could see, which was barely a few strides in front of his feet. Sandor thought he heard a scream, and reached for his sword but found that he did not have one. His hand closed over the handle of the axe he used to slay the Brothers without Banners who had hung Ray and slaughtered his followers. A lemon cloak, one of them had. Yellow, the colour of the Clegane sigil. Sandor hefted the axe in his hand, feeling the strength of his own arm, a reassurance above any other. The cold froze his fingers.

A shape emerged from the hail, large and looming. Sandor tensed, and the hail kept battering at his face, cutting and scraping like a thousand tiny fingernails. The shape came closer, lumbering unsteadily, as if its legs were uneven, or it had a bad limp. It came even closer, and Sandor felt his head rush with hate. He refused to admit to the fear which caused sweat to break out on his skin and instantly freeze. Gregor. It was always Gregor, in his worst nightmares, only this time there were no flames. Just ice and cold.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he shouted into the hail.

His brother did not answer. He lumbered within view, and Sandor stared at the red slits he had left for eyes, the purple tinge of his skin and the swollen folds of his neck. Massive, bloated dead fingers reached for Sandor’s face. He swung his axe with all his power and Gregor’s hand fell onto the snow, spewing streams of purple fluid. Sandor swung again, and his brother’s neck opened wide. The blood which poured out was black like tar, already congealed within his body. _He’s dead…he’s a wight._

Sandor ducked to avoid the remaining swinging fist aimed at his throat. The creature that had once been Gregor was still moving despite its head hanging at an odd angle. Sandor swung the axe another time, hoping to cleave the head entirely from its shoulders, but he slipped in the dark blood. He grunted when he hit the ground, and raised the axe to defend against an expected blow.

But when he looked up, Gregor sprouted a long feathered shaft between his eyes and let loose a weird, shrill scream accompanied by more ooze from his mouth. Another soon followed, embedding in his eye with a squishing whack. Sandor rolled away and turned to see the archer. Instead, he saw a pack of wolves, led by a tawny direwolf with bloodied jaws. Nymeria. The wolves charged together, leaping over Sandor and sinking their fangs into what remained of Gregor’s thrashing corpse.

Sandor watched his brother writhe, expecting victory, but feeling nothing but emptiness.

“We’re going now.”

He blinked. The wolves were talking, different wolves. The biggest was pure white with a grim snarl, one was sleek with auburn fur like a tarnished sunset, another was thin and black-furred, and the last was dark brown with familiar stormy grey eyes.

“Where are you going?” he asked them.

“Home,” said the one with Arya’s eyes.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Our home is not your home,” all four growled, and were joined by the rest of the pack. “Our place is not yours. Go away, dog. Your blood does not run with the icy winds of the north as ours does. We are one, and we are of the north. You will never belong.”

“Arya,” he shouted, but all of the wolves were starting to lope away. Gregor’s remains were strewn about; blood, gnawed bones, tattered flesh and rotting organs. “Arya, you can’t leave me here.”

She did not answer. The cold and the hail kept battering Sandor’s face, and the wolves were swallowed by it. His red, red blood dripped onto the snow. She had left him to die again, with even less caring than she showed in the Vale. He heard a shriek behind him, and made out more shapes appearing. More wights, each one in a different stage of decomposition. There were too many, and he was alone.

Alone. _Again._

* * *

Sandor woke with a gasp and heard a clatter as several pieces of his armour were knocked onto the floor.

Still fully dressed, Sandor had collapsed onto his unmade bed and passed out. He had not expected to dream at all, given his state of inebriation, but the nightmare crept up on him all the same. It left him breathing heavily, covered in sweat which pasted his shirt and britches to his skin. He sat up with a groan, feeling the room tilt uncomfortably. He wiped the saliva from his beard and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass, unable to remember if he had thrown up already or not. _I should drink less,_ he thought, but imminent death made the effort of controlling his intake of alcohol seem very unappealing. Besides, he had just been rejected, and there was no-one available to gut or otherwise maim. He had a right to get drunk.

Holding his spinning head, he thought about the wolves from the dream, heading far away into the pelting hail. Dreams were the vomit of a sleeping mind, but he still wondered about whether some truth was hidden there. Maybe he would never truly belong anywhere. Once, that would not have bothered him. He always hated the Lannisters, with their smug golden smiles and cruel superiority, and being his own man, no longer taking their orders, had been a relief for a while. Until he realised he had nothing. Until he realised he was even more alone than before. A man needed a purpose…a reason to keep at least partially sober during the day. Sandor was glad to have a purpose again, and to have found that purpose in protecting someone he had accidentally discovered he loved. But he still feared losing her. Arya had proven before that she could leave him without any difficulty. Or she might die in the coming Great War, and Sandor knew he could never go on living then, knowing he had failed to protect her. If they died, they died together.

A far worse thought was the idea that they could both live, and continue to be kept apart. There would be a need for new alliances after this winter, alliances which would be sealed in marriages. Sandor imagined Arya standing before a heart tree, reluctantly pledging her love to some spoilt young shit of a lordling. What would her promises to him mean then?

 _She’s mine, and I’m hers._ Sandor knew then he still wanted to marry her, no matter if they were going to die soon. He lurched to his feet and swayed. The sky was black as pitch, casting no light through his shuttered window, and he was in no fit state to wander the castle at night.

 _In the morning, then,_ he thought blearily. _She won’t forgive me easily for coming to her drunk._ But he was still standing. He opened the window, letting the icy wind shock him more fully awake. Sandor shut the window and staggered to his door.

* * *

It would be impossible later for him to remember how exactly he managed to navigate his way through the castle. Torchlight was swimming, molten fires on skies of grey and black. Each step up to the Starks’ chambers reached out and tried to trip him. The guards might have said something to him, but he was either too drunk to notice or they were all too cowardly to try to stop him.

He knocked hard on a door, not entirely certain it was hers. He heard footsteps, and the click of a latch. The door complained on its hinges.

“What are you doing here?” Arya was holding Needle in one hand, barely holding the door open, and her eyes were dark with anger. She was wearing a nightgown which left her neck and most of her shoulders bare, and he might have stared just a bit.

“Need to talk,” he slurred.

She wrinkled her nose and squinted, taking in the strong smell of his stale sweat and the ale on his breath. His face was clammy and his shirt was stained.

“You’re drunker than I’ve seen you in a long time,” she accused him with a disgusted expression. “And it’s only been a few hours. What did you do, empty a barrel of wine down your throat?”

“Need to talk now.”

Arya leaned out onto the corridor and looked both directions. Only torch shadows watched them, and perhaps the ghosts of her ancestors. Silence was interrupted by muffled voices from the yard and the sounds of servants or guards moving somewhere in the castle. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the room.

“Get in here before someone hears,” she snapped. “Keep your voice down.”

Sandor stumbled in and straightened his shirt while she was locking the door. He, quite literally, fell onto one knee. She looked on in exasperation.

“Arya…” he said, trying to speak clearly. “Wolf girl…marry me.”

“No.” Her voice was unyielding.

Sandor slumped onto the ground and sat there. “Gods…” he groaned, “I’m making a bloody fool of myself.”

Arya did not show the slightest hint of sympathy. “No argument there,” she shrugged, and went to her table to pick up a candle and light it. The spark made him flinch, but only for a moment.

“Girl,” he said much quieter, “We’re going to die anyway…what does it matter if you marry me?”

Having set her skinny sword on the table, she turned back towards him. The candlelight behind her head made her hair glow bronze, and brought out the curve of her waist under the material of the dress.

“It makes no sense, as we decided earlier.”

He threw up his hands. “Maybe nothing fucking makes sense.”

“Like what’s happening right now?”

“Like me loving you and you loving me. It’s just words.”

“Words are wind.” Arya remained at the table, looking at him with frost in her gaze. Cold, like she had been while she was still his captive back in the Riverlands, but her skin looked so warm. Warm and soft.

Sandor gazed at her. “I love you.”

“I know that.”

“Why not just say the words?” he asked.

“This is your only reason?” she scoffed. “Why not? That’s the kind of reason a person gives for taking another slice of bread, not for marriage.”

“Make me part of your family.”

“You say some stupid shit when you’re drunk.” Now she was smiling, perhaps mockingly, but it was better than nothing.

“I want you,” he drawled. She left the candlelight and walked over to kneel next to him in the middle of the room.

“We’re going to die soon,” she said.

“I didn’t say always would be a long time.” He reached and caught strands of that bronze hair between his fingers, soft and smooth.

“Valar morghulis,” she whispered, and he felt her cool hands either side of his face before she leaned forward and kissed him quickly. Sandor sighed and wrapped his arms around her much smaller body, clasping her close as their mouths melded roughly. Her hair smelled of morning dew and smoke. He was drunk on more than ale and wine now, intoxicated with her. She pulled back and he ran his hand over her leg. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Arya shook her head.

“Doing what?” he asked, and nuzzled her neck.

“I’m going to say yes.” The words vibrated in her throat. Sandor grabbed her tightly and lifted his head to lean in for another kiss.

“She-wolf…” he moaned, but she pushed on his chest and glared.

“I’m going to say yes, but only if you leave right now and shut up.”

“I…” She punched his collarbone then, enough to sting. He bit his tongue and chuckled.

“Shut up,” she repeated. “I will marry you. In secret. Without anyone knowing except you and me. Now go. Leave before I change my mind.”

She helped him to his unsteady feet and shoved him towards the door. Sandor was still grinning. “You sounded like a lady there,” he told her, and managed to grab the neck of her gown before pulling her face to his again. Arya’s fingernails dug into his jaw, and he felt the softness of her small breast under the gown. Then there was the press of cool, sharp metal against his belly, and he let go.

She always had a knife hidden somewhere.

“I’ve killed a man while wearing a nightgown before,” she warned him with typical savagery. “Go. Don’t make me say it again.”

Sandor knew she would never actually stab him…or at least he hoped she would never actually stab him. All the same, he left after that. He was no match for her, not while drunk. The door closed. In the morning, he was unsure exactly how it had happened, but he remembered that she said yes.


	4. The Cloaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a break there - sorry about that. But here we are, Season 7 nearly over, and I have promised a wedding, and intend to deliver...

“What are you doing?”

Sansa’s voice was sharp and sudden, but it did not cause Arya to jump. Her highly tuned ears had already picked up that Sansa was approaching down the corridor, and pausing in the doorway. The younger sister retracted her hand from the wardrobe and kept a stony, straight face. Undoubtedly, Sansa did not appreciate this invasion into her privacy, but then, they _had_ promised recently to trust each other.

“I’m looking for something,” Arya replied, stating what was obvious. “Do you have a grey cloak of some kind?”

“I’ve never known you to take an interest in fashion.” Sansa frowned her delicate brows and folded her arms. “Are you dressing up for a pageant?”

“Very funny.” The younger Stark girl walked to the foot of her sister’s bed and lifted the lid.

“If you want to borrow from me, you need only ask,” Sansa stated somewhat defensively. “In fact, I’d be happy to make something for you, if you wish.”

“Thanks,” Arya rifled around a bit, but everything in the chest was too ostentatious, or too black, or too long for her. She sighed. “I actually need this cloak today. Just plain grey would do, but if it had our sigil on it, that would be perfect.”

Their eyes met. Sansa’s narrowed even more, and after a moment, the Lady of Winterfell dropped her arms to her sides and shot her most wilful sibling a dramatic look of concern.

“Arya,” she said. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

“What makes you think I’m planning something?”

“Do you not remember what we agreed? We need to trust each other now. I’m your sister, Arya. Please, we have to at least try to be friends.”

“We are friends,” Arya muttered, shutting the chest with a dull click.

“Are we?” Sansa laughed without humour. “Can two people be friends if they don’t know each other anymore?”

They stood there, either side of the bed in the room which had always belonged to the eldest of Ned Stark’s girls. So much bound them both to this castle, to each other, to the very ice and winds of the North. Yet, between them, there was a chasm of bitter memory, of hurt and grief. Crossing it was difficult. Crossing it would take time, perhaps more than they even had left.

“No,” Arya admitted, shrugging as if it were unimportant. “I guess we’re not friends. We never were good sisters, though, even when we did know each other. I don’t think the not knowing has made a difference.”

Sansa’s blue, calculating eyes were downcast, her face painted in deep sorrow, which Arya tried to convince herself was genuine.

“When we were younger,” Sansa said softly, “I was jealous of you, sometimes.”

“What?”

“It’s true.” She walked slowly over and sat on the bed, looking at her shiny leather boots. “You never seemed to care what anyone thought of you or what they whispered behind your back. You just did whatever you liked. I always envied you for that.”

Arya stared, and crossed the room to grasp Sansa’s arm and laugh.

“But I was jealous of you all the time!” she exclaimed. “I may have covered it up with spite, but I was. You knew how to act and how to get people to like you. I was always the one everyone sneered at. Our poor septa hated me but everyone thought you were perfect. I hated you for it.”

Sansa smiled prettily. “I was just a girl,” she said sadly. “A silly girl with no idea how the world worked. We’ve both changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” Arya snorted. Wars and death, weakness and strength…everything had been altered.

“Could you maybe not hate me so much now?” Sansa asked.

“I never hated you,” Arya claimed. “Not really.” Sansa raised an eyebrow and her sister caved. “Well, maybe sometimes,” she admitted. “But not for very long.”

“If only we’d never left Winterfell,” Sansa lamented, rising and pacing to the shuttered window. “We didn’t have any idea of hate back then.” She flung the shutters open, and the wind howled in, bringing snowflakes and icy cold.

Arya could feel the pause in their conversation. She knew Sansa was waiting for an answer now, and wanted to force some kind of confession. Where was the harm, except to her pride? Here they were, and death was approaching.

“Fuck it…I’ll tell you why I want the cloak,” she said at last.

Sansa sat across from her as Arya spoke, telling a tale which bruised her own dignity to tell. She often considered altering the details of the telling, but what was the use of that? Both of their sets of lies would have to be set aside before the end anyway. So Arya told Sansa about the Brotherhood, years ago, about how she had run from them, how the Hound had captured her, how she hated him every day and night, and wanted to kill him with every waking breath. She recalled how what happened at the Twins reduced her to a numb creature of grief, how this man she loathed had saved her life, how he taught her to survive, to stay alive, to keep breathing. She told Sansa how they killed together, how they fought together, how every night they would lie on opposite sides of a campfire, and how…in the end…she had left him to die. Arya confessed the pain of her guilt, so long left denied in her heart. She confessed how seeing him alive had ripped at the fabric of her own moral code, and how their exchange of forgiveness was a relief, a cure. And, although she no longer could look Sansa in the eye, Arya told her sister that she wanted to always have Sandor near, until their deaths.

Perhaps surprisingly, Sansa was completely silent through the telling, and at the end of this story, she continued to be silent. For a while, Arya almost lost her temper waiting for some kind of reaction, staring at the floor, feeling the sickness of her embarrassment.

But Sansa did speak eventually. “I’ve suspected it for a while,” she said, carefully. “The way he looks at you, it’s obvious he’s attached to you. I’m not the only one who’s noticed how friendly the two of you are. But do you truly love him back?”

Arya clasped her hands and scuffed the floor with the heel of her shoe. “I think so,” she replied uncertainly. “It’s a bit confusing, but when we’re together, just the two of us apart from the whole world, it feels right. It feels good.”

“But…” Sansa got up and paced. He’s the Hound.”

“Not anymore,” Arya snapped. “Don’t use that name.”

“Just because he’s changed now doesn’t mean he hasn’t done awful things,” Sansa hissed, glancing at the door as if anticipating the arrival of someone. “He’s a bitter man, and harsh. I knew him, don’t forget, in King’s Landing. He could be cruel, and I don’t forget that from time to time he would enjoy frightening me.”

Feeling the embers of bitterness reignite, Arya got up and glared. “Are you saying you know him better than I do?”

Sansa shook her head seriously. “After what you’ve told me, no, I can see that I don’t. But he’s still far too old for you.”

“You’re one to talk,” Arya retorted, irritated by her sister’s patronising tone. “The way I see you flirting with Littlefinger.”

“I do not flirt with Lord Baelish!” Sansa responded by clenching her fists and turning away with a swish of her fine fur cloak.

“Whether you do or don’t, he is _much_ older.” Arya chuckled.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” her sister insisted, and turned back at once with a stern expression. “You can’t marry the Hound.”

“I’m marrying _Sandor_. You can’t stop it.”

“But, Arya, you’re a Stark, and a princess whether you like it or not,” the Lady of Winterfell reminded her. “You can’t marry the man who used to be Joffrey’s dog.”

“I can and I will.” Strangely, having a third party attempt to intervene was causing Arya to dig her heels in now about a decision that had seemed foolish to _her_ just hours earlier.

“What will Jon say?” Sansa asked desperately, seeing walls of resistance going up. “What will everyone say?”

“We’re keeping it a secret,” Arya walked over and took Sansa’s soft leather gloves in her own. “No-one will know. Promise me you’ll tell nobody, Sansa.”

After a moment, Sansa sighed and pressed her forehead gently against her sister’s. “I promise,” she relented. “But I still disapprove.”

Arya breathed in the sweet smell of Sansa’s perfume, and enjoyed the softness of her ginger hair against the sides of her head. She would never admit it aloud, but that confession had felt somewhat cleansing. Another secret out in the open between them, strengthening their new bond of strained friendship.

“Thank you,” she whispered against Sansa’s chin, lingering before pulling back and grinning. “Now, back to the cloak…”

The subject of clothing had always been a pleasant one for Sansa, who brightened a little. “Come,” she told Arya. “I’ll show you something.”

They walked side by side out onto the corridor, and crossed the passage to another door. Sansa slotted a key into the lock, and they entered the dusty chambers which had once been Robb’s…or was it Rickon’s? Waving away plumes of dust, Sansa opened the wardrobe there and produced a slightly singed grey garment embroidered with a fierce white direwolf.

“Is this mother’s?” Arya touched it tentatively, assuming after all the years on the road that beautiful things would be destroyed by her filthy fingers, but her hands were clean now, and the fabric was thick and warm.

“It was her bride cloak,” Sansa said, “Given to her by our father on their wedding day. It survived the fire, but it’s been slightly singed, see? Lady Walda actually saved it in a chest while the Boltons were here. I found it afterwards when I was going through some of their things.”

“It’s perfect, Sansa,” Arya said, accepting it from her sister’s arms. “Thank you.”

Satisfied, Sansa smiled. “Now,” she said, decisively. “Let’s find you a dress.”

“No dress.” Arya’s voice allowed absolutely no room for negotiation.

“All right, no dress,” Sansa rolled her eyes. “But let me do your hair.”

“Sansa…”

* * *

 

Somewhere in the ragged camp set up by the Brotherhood without Banners outside the walls of Winterfell, Sandor found his way around tent pegs and ashen lanterns. The cold was seeping up his legs from where snow and ice caked his boots and most of his lower legs. Additionally, his head was pounding badly now. Usually it would be tradition to get stinking drunk _after_ the wedding, he thought, and having a hangover this bad was not what he had intended. Blindingly white snow hurt his eyes, and the smell of food made him feel ill. But he still managed to find the man he needed.

“Thoros,” he grunted, and sat down next to the priest. “I need you to do something for me.”

They were sitting at a dying campfire sandwiched between several tents, sheltered from the harsh weather. The discarded ribs of some unfortunate creature were hanging on a spit. Thoros of Myr was clutching his ragged red cloak around himself, but as usual, spared a humorous smile for everything life threw his way.

“Clegane,” he said, with faux pleasantness, “you look like shit. Did you find yourself locked in a wine cellar, by any chance?”

“Do you still know how to say the words for rituals, priest?” Sandor rubbed his hands violently together for heat. He disliked having to ask Thoros for anything, but the only other option involved far too many threats or bribes.

“What kind of ritual are we talking here?” Thoros coughed, and his breath was a plume of ice.

“A wedding.”

“A wedding? And who’s the unlucky lady, dog?” The red priest, naturally, assumed he was joking, and chuckled to himself. Awkwardly, Sandor glanced at him and waited for him to realise in his own time that he was sincere. Thoros gaped. “…Lord protect us all, you actually mean it!” he gasped. “You want me to marry _you_?”

“No, I want you to marry me to a woman.” Sandor raised his head and winced. “Keep your fucking voice down.”

Thoros did, and irritated his companion by leaning in and grinning.

“What “woman” is this?” he asked conspiratorially.

Sandor recoiled from the priest’s annoying enthusiasm. “I’m not saying that until you swear to do it,” he snapped.

Thoros laughed, apparently finding this the funniest turn of events he could have encountered that day. “Why would you ask me to carry out this…joining?” he asked.

“Who else?”

“I assume there are men of religion somewhere in the north if one looks hard enough.” Thoros waved his arm around to illustrate his point. “Septons of some kind.”

“I’d have to pay or chop up a septon to keep him quiet,” Sandor grunted irritably. “You’ll keep quiet because I’ll buy you a drink, and I asked so nicely.”

“You seem sure.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” The two men appraised each other, and the priest finally became more serious, and nodded.

“Tell you what,” he nodded thoughtfully, making Sandor clench his teeth by clapping him over the shoulder. “I’ll do this, firstly because my curiosity about this love match of yours will be insatiable otherwise, and secondly, because you’ll be in my debt, and that pleases me.”

Having received an answer, Sandor rose quickly to his feet. Prolonging this awkwardness was _not_ appealing.

“The Wolfswood tonight, then,” he muttered, avoiding Thoros’ eyes. “Don’t fucking tell anyone.”

“Very well.” Thoros chuckled again to himself, and shook his head in bemusement. It was odd, this marriage, Sandor thought to himself; nothing but a whim between two people who could easily be killed any day now. But he would like to call her his wife before the end, whatever value the word had when no-one else really knew.

He was turning to stomp off when he remembered his other task. “One more thing, priest,” he barked, “do you remember those men you were hanging when we met in the Riverlands?”

“Of course,” Thoros frowned in confusion.

“One of them had a yellow cloak,” Sandor sighed. “Yellow’s the colour of…”

Realisation dawned. “Ah, I see where you’re going with this,” Thoros nodded. “If anyone still has it, I’ll find it, dog.”

“Good.”


	5. The Fire

They arrived at the appointed place, three ladies on three horses in a forest of snow and secrets. Frosty wind and anticipation swirled around hooves, and their cloaks hung low around their feet. This weirwood, somewhere in the Wolfswood, was a large one, thicker than the heart tree in Winterfell, but squatter. Beneath its blood-red leaves and bone-like boughs, no less than four men waited. The smallest of the three women, now within sight, drew her horse to a halt. She could see Sandor there, standing to one side, and three others working at something on the ground.

“Oh, seven hells,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

Brienne of Tarth, resplendent in shining navy armour and soft wolf furs which brought out the fairness of her face and short hair, stopped next to Arya. The younger Stark girl winced. Four men. Three additional witnesses, plus Sansa and Brienne. This was quickly turning into a public spectacle. She had half a mind to turn back at once, but closed her eyes and decided that it did not matter.

“Never mind,” she sighed, and they rode on.

“Are you having second thoughts, my lady?”

Brienne, of course, would leap at any opportunity to convince her that this was a bad idea. Apparently the mission their mother had given Brienne included helping the Stark girls to make correct choices in marriage, and generally interfering where she saw fit. Not that Arya resented her concern. If anything, it was Sansa’s fault for telling her guardian to begin with.

“No, Brienne,” she said, frowning.

“Are you sure, Arya?” Sansa sniffed to her left. “Honestly, if the three of us turned around now, I think he would get the message…”

“No.” Arya’s tone silenced her companions.

The two women were undoubtedly shooting each other disapproving looks over her shoulders. Brienne was genuinely worried in her own way, and meant well. Sansa was simply irritated to have control wrested from her delicate but firm grasp. Regardless of how they felt, Arya had made this decision herself, and would stick by it. If anything, their criticisms had only made her more determined to go through with this idiotic idea.

She spurred her horse into a canter and approached the clearing. The men, it appeared, were preparing a ditch, having dug into the ground and filled the crevice with bracken. They were pouring oil over the whole thing, and Arya recognised Thoros of Myr’s sardonic expression as she rode up and dismounted. The snow crunched underfoot, and she met the curious, astounded gazes with solid challenge. They had no right to stare or judge, she thought. No man or woman had any right to judge her heart.

Sandor walked up and took the reins of her horse. Arya looked up at him with an ambivalent mixture of embarrassment and delighted mischief. It was a true shock to see that he had actually brushed his hair, and his face was clean. A ragged yellow cloak hung about his shoulders. He pointed at her.

“You found one.” There was a note of strange awkwardness in his voice, uncertainty almost.

“It’s my mother’s.” Arya looked down at herself briefly. She had managed to deflect Sansa’s attempts to push dresses upon her, and was still clad in her usual leather tunic and britches. Her hair however, was neatly braided, and the beautiful grey cloak “brought out her eyes”, as her sister had exclaimed.

“You look…” Sandor swallowed whatever he had been about to say, and his face darkened as his gaze was drawn over her shoulder. “Seven fucking hells, what is THAT doing here?” he glowered.

“Brienne is Sansa’s protector,” she muttered, remembering her own irritation, which for a moment had been quite distant. “But never mind that, what about them?” She pointed at the men finishing their work on the ditch.

“Thoros agreed to marry us,” Sandor snapped, and changed the subject to continue glaring at the approaching Brienne of Tarth. “You can’t fucking expect me to put up with HER at my own wedding.”

“I do and you will,” Arya gestured back at the ditch. “You know we could have got married at a heart tree without any witnesses at all. It’s not like in the south – you don’t even need a priest for this.”

Sandor was silent for a moment, and bit his bottom lip in annoyance. “I did not know that.”

Arya rolled her eyes but, with effort, unclenched her fists. Sansa and Brienne were almost level with them now, and the last thing she wanted was to give them an excuse to put a stop to this ceremony, ritual or whatever was in store for them.

“Let’s get this over with, okay?” she hissed, and he nodded in consent before they both stepped away from the effective shield of her horse. Sandor inclined his head to Sansa, now dismounting.

“Lady Stark,” he said, with minimal brusqueness.

“Clegane,” Sansa returned, wrapping her cloak about herself. “Quite a larger crowd than I was led to believe.”

“Plans change,” he replied, and turned his eyes to Brienne. Before anything could be begun on that side of the conflict, however, another voice cut in.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Thoros drawled, walking up to the group. “Could somebody explain what is happening?” As an afterthought, he bowed to Sansa. “Lady Stark,” he said.

Sansa stepped forward, all business and fine manners. “Sirs,” she called, in her polished, commanding voice, addressing the Brothers before her. “Each of you chose to come to Winterfell to help us in the Great War. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for that. Today, I ask only for discretion and consideration for my sister, whose marriage today is to remain a secret for the time being in this time of turmoil.”

Thoros, cowed slightly by her regal manner, nodded. His eyes would have trouble getting back to their original shape, Arya thought, having stretched so wide. But the priest made a laudable attempt at recovering composure.

“I assure you, my lady,” he said seriously, “These fine soldiers and myself have no attempt of breaching your confidence. I just…” He shook his head and laughed. “Am I hearing this right?” he asked Sandor suddenly. “You’re marrying _Arya Stark_?”

“He is,” Arya said, folding her arms. Sandor dropped his arm over her shoulders.

“Damn fucking right,” he added.

That required a second to sink in. The two men at the ditch were looking at each other with bemused, faced with a situation which none of them could have expected, and important secrets to keep at the risk of their honour, whatever amount they had of that. Thoros, meanwhile, recovered, smiled and clasped his hands.

“Shall we?” he said, and dragged his feet back to the ditch.

Arya swallowed any sudden nervous energy created by the presence of an audience. She had preferred being by herself, she was beginning to realise. Being a sister, a lover…these were aspects of life she was not excelling at. But life gave her these challenges, and she would not back down now because complications arose. She felt the weight of Sandor’s hand, and convinced herself that this was the right decision to make.

Sansa set her hands on her hips and faced them. Her dress was made of a heavy purple fabric cinched around her waist with a wide black belt. Brienne hovered in the background, thankfully aware that her presence was unwanted.

“Look after her,” the Lady of Winterfell said sternly to Sandor.

“Shut up, you’re not my mother,” Arya snapped before he could reply. “There’s no “looking after” here. Let’s get this over with.”

“She stays back,” Sandor pointed at Brienne.

“Fine.”

His hand slipped around her arm, and they trudged through the snow towards the weirwood. The two Brothers without Banners had retreated to the left, and Thoros stood with clasped hands before the ditch.

“Lord of light,” he shouted, raising his hands up for emphasis. “You are the warmth in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. The night is dark and full of terrors. Alone we are born and alone we die, but we draw strength from one another. Today, two come forth to join their lives, so they may face the darkness together. Lord of light defend us!”

As the Brothers without Banners echoed their red priest, Thoros knelt and, with a flourish, summoned sparks which instantly caught the bracken. Flames leapt up from the ditch, no more than waist high to Arya, but intense and bright. She felt Sandor's dicomfort next to her, and turned to see him staring at the fire.

Thoros gestured for them to approach. “Come forth in front of…yes, the other side, of the fire,” he told them, and they stood in front of him, the flames separating them from the priest and the heart tree. Thoros looked behind them. “Who brings this woman to be wed?” he called.

It appeared that they were combining several traditions into one ritual, both Northern gods and the Lord of Light giving their blessings. Arya found Sandor’s glove and they exchanged a look of frustration. Yet, under that, the fact that they were actually standing here was strange and exciting.

Sansa stepped up behind them. “I bring my sister,” she said. “Arya of House Stark comes to be wed, a woman grown, trueborn and noble.”

_And barren as a brick._ Sansa left that part out.

“She comes to ask for the blessings of the g-…of the Lord of Light.” Sansa corrected herself, as confused about the religious significance and terminology here as anyone else.

“And who comes to claim her?” Thoros asked.

“Sandor of House Clegane.” There was a certain pride in his gruff voice.

Thoros was smiling. “Will you share your fire with Arya Stark, dog, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“When she’ll have me,” he nodded. Arya looked up at him with amusement.

“My lady,” Thoros continued. “Do you swear to share your fire with Sandor Clegane, and warm him when the night is dark and full of terrors?

Arya felt the cold winds whip at her braided hair, and tasted the acrid smell of burning. The solid presence of the man beside her was a warmth and a nuisance, a challenge and a prize. She loved him, she knew that. She would always know that.

“Until the day we die,” she declared. _However long that may be._

He squeezed her fingers through their gloves. Thoros spread his arms and moved back towards the white tree.

“Then step over the flames and be one,” he told them.

At that suggestion, Sandor swore profusely under his breath. Arya noticed the sweat starting to bead on his forehead as he stared into the burning bracken, despite the cold winds which seemed to have masked the heat of the ditch fire.

“Is there a problem, dog?” Thoros asked when they hesitated.

Arya thought quickly, wishing to save him some embarrassment. “How about we mix our blood instead?” she suggested. “Or you could tie our hands like the septons do.”

“No.” Sandor shook his head and continued to stare forward.

She leaned towards him and whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.”

With his much bigger hand still grasping hers, they stepped forward together and leapt over the ditch. The flames licked their cloaks and feet, but there was no heat from them. A trick of the light, it must have been; a magician’s device. The flames had never been real. Sandor and Arya frowned behind themselves, but the priest was continuing.

“Two went into the flames,” he declared. “One emerges. What fire joins, none may tear asunder.”

When it appeared that his priestly speeches were through, Arya patted the grey cloak on her shoulders and turned her back towards her partner and friend. Sandor removed the grey maiden's cloak from her back and replaced it with the yellow mangy one he had been wearing. Arya turned back to him, and, refusing to feel uncomfortable in front of the five pairs of eyes around them, pulled his face down to hers. Their lips melded briefly, she-wolf and dog joined before family and gods. Arya savoured the taste of his skin, and afterwards turned back to Thoros.

“Is it done, then?” she asked the priest.

He nodded. “You’re very much a woman wed.” From the other side of the ditch, Sansa, Brienne and the two others clapped, although their enthusiasm was muted at best. Arya did not care. They had enough enthusiasm for each other. Sandor’s eyes were bright with relief even if his face refused to show it, and she knew that face almost as well as her own.

Thoros brushed down his ragged robes as they headed back around the ditch. “Drinks all round?” he suggested. “Best part of a wedding, in most opinions, is the feasting afterwards, but I don’t imagine the cooks of Winterfell will have been notified on this occasion.”

“Afraid not,” Arya shrugged.

Sansa, approaching and having overheard, cut in. “Actually,” she smiled graciously. “I have arranged for a meal to be prepared tonight, sirs. You and the rest of your brothers are very welcome to attend.”

“A fine notion indeed, Lady Stark!” Thoros grinned and bowed. “You may expect to see us there tonight.”

The priest and his followers set to putting out the ditch fire and covering the evidence, while the Stark girls, Sandor, and Brienne at a respectful distance, walked to their horses.

“We can’t just sit and feast together,” Arya hissed. “This is meant to be a secret.”

Sansa waved her hand as if to dispel the notion. “It won’t be a feast,” she said. “I was planning it anyway; just a generous meal in the hall. There’s no need for a reason for that. It would do some good for people to enjoy a little merriment once in a while despite everything that’s happened.”

Sandor, walking closely to Arya like a large shadow, grunted in approval. “As long as the wine is free, I’ll not complain,” he muttered.

They reached their horses and started to mount up, agreeing to return separately in order to prevent more suspicions from developing. Arya leaned across from her saddle to the man who, she realised, was now technically her _husband._

“I’ll see you tonight,” she winked, but did not kiss him, because Sansa and Brienne were watching, even if they pretended they were not.

“I’ll be waiting,” he rumbled quietly.

Three ladies on three horses rode away from the Wolfswood, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts about love and death and what would remain when the Great War ended. Arya could feel the warmth in her chest spreading a little more at the thought of Sandor being sworn to share his fires with her. Worse phrasing could not have been chosen, when it came to him, and a worse ceremony would have been difficult to devise. Yet she liked the notion. The way he reflected her passion and spirit was why she loved him.

Sansa broke her happy thoughts by stating the obvious. “I don’t know how we’re going to tell Jon about this.”

“For the last time,” Arya groaned tiredly. “Jon is _not to know._ Not yet, anyway.”

Brienne shot her a look of disbelief. “This is not a secret you can hope to keep for long,” she pointed out.

“I kept my own name secret for a very long time,” Arya said, somewhat bitterly. “A marriage is nothing compared to that.”


	6. The End

It had ended. The games they played had ended, the battle between love and hate still raging strong, the recognition of their two hearts, and the reminders they received just by looking at each other how far they had come.

Arya walked through the corridors of the castle of her childhood. Coming back here had been difficult. The self she used to be and the self she had become were difficult to reconcile. It was easier when Sandor was with her. He understood who she was now, better than anyone else did. No words were needed for him to let her know that he saw her inner rage, her need for vengeance, her lasting desire to rid the world of threats. It was when she realised how like him she had become – that was the moment she first knew she loved him. That was the moment she knew that he was one of the people she had left to protect and fight for, whether or not he would let her.

Arya had avoided the activity in the hall, waiting for the meal to get underway so that no-one would be thinking or looking for her. Aside from that distraction downstairs, she was wearing another face anyway; a boy’s face. She was dressed like a squire, and no-one spared a squire another glance except to boss him around. The thought that Sandor was waiting for her in his room made her skin tingle in anticipation. Knowing that he wanted her, and she wanted him, was a heady excitement.

* * *

 

There was a single candle burning in his room. Sandor had, with effort, gone easy on the wine that evening, and quickly made himself scarce from the hall. He hated crowds. Besides, the sooner he returned to his room, the sooner his new _wife_ would decide to show up. He took off his armour and boots, already feeling his body respond to the thoughts of what they could do to each other, here, between these walls.

Thinking back, it was that day in the Vale which started this. He had been picking at the bite on his neck, she had been obsessively polishing her little sword, and the sky was wolf grey, like her eyes. They had been insulting, cruel and snapping at each other for almost a year, but at that moment she had been quiet. He told her things he had never told another person so freely. And instead of using those things against him, her cool fingers on his inflamed neck had been gentle while she helped him clean out the wound. That memory had stuck with him more than any other he knew. Maybe he had loved her then, and just not recognised the feeling for what it was.

The door opened behind him.

He had left it unlatched, so Arya could get in easily, and he turned away from the chair he was hanging his clothes over, expecting to see her standing there. But instead, there was a squire with a mischievous expression in the doorway.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sandor glared at him. “Get out, before I…”

The boy closed the door with impossible speed, and drew the latch before Sandor could move, let alone backhand him across the face. The lad pressed his back against the door and smiled eerily, with an expression which had too much intensity for any child.

“What in seven hells…”

And then, in a fluid motion, Arya Stark peeled the boy’s face off her own. Longer braided hair flopped down onto her shoulders, she seemed to become slightly taller, and her roguish smirk emerged. Sandor dropped the belt he was holding in his hand and almost stumbled in shock.

Arya could not help but laugh at his expression. “You should see your face!” she snorted, still leaning against the door.

He pressed his face to his hands while she laughed, slowly recovering from the surprise, and then glared at her between his fingers.

“Never again,” he growled threateningly. “I keep telling you, wolf bitch, never again with the fucking faces. Do that to me again…”

Sensing that, perhaps, she was going too far, Arya peeled her body away from the door and ceased laughing.

“Come on,” she smiled. “Don’t be afraid of me on our wedding night.”

Sandor lowered his hands from his face with a frustrated groan. He was dressed only in a shirt and loose britches, bare feet sticking out the bottom. Arya could see that he had already taken off his belt. She walked silently over to his bed, sat and smoothed the linen sheets, never breaking eye contact. The sheets smelt of him, she thought; a mix of sweat and leather and metal.

“You’re a bad little girl, do you know that, she-wolf?” He bit his bottom lip and walked over. One of his hands ran up her leg, roughly, as he leaned down.

“You like me best when I’m bad,” Arya told him, smirking. There were a few knives in her pockets, she thought, but all night awaited them. That sort of game could maybe wait until later.

Her pulse thundered as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her throat. Arya reached under his shirt and pressed her fingers to his warm skin, feeling the strength of his body. Her breaths came sharply. The excitement reminded her of a good fight, of the tingling in her blood after slicing the throat of Walder Frey, of the rush after seeing an enemy fall. She dug her nails into Sandor’s flesh, and he groaned her name, her true name, none of the many she had worn for years.

“If anyone had told us,” she found herself saying, laughing. “If anyone told us years ago what would happen…”

“I’d have killed myself on that hill years ago,” Sandor groaned. She jabbed his ribs in mock outrage, and he cursed before grabbing the front of her squire’s tunic and slamming her against the bed so hard it took the air from her lungs.

Their lips met like shields smashing together in battle. Bodies pressed tightly together on the bed, his legs and chest pinning her in place. Sheets and clothes tangled. Their fingers wrapped in dark hair. Arya tasted the bitter tang of his mouth, and wrapped her leg around his waist. His hands fumbled over her clothes with violent hunger. She felt the hard power of his legs against her own, and the bulging under his britches. Freeing a hand, she found one of her hidden knives, this one from a shoe. The ability to gut him if she particularly wanted to was intoxicating. She twisted the blade in her hand and held it to his jugular. Sandor pressed his forehead against hers, met her eyes and bared his teeth.

“Sometimes I think you still want to bloody kill me,” he snarled.

“Always,” Arya replied, and licked his sweaty nose, careful not to move the knife too sharply. His hips grinded against her, the heat of his breath warm on her neck. His weight pressing down on her made her breathless.

“Give me the knife,” he demanded.

“What if I don’t?” she teased, struggling to keep her voice level with the effect of the blood surging in her ears.

Sandor wrapped his fingers around the hand holding the knife to his throat. Arya dug the blade in harder, just under his jaw.

“You won’t cut me,” he growled. “That’s no way to start our marriage.”

“Want to bet?” she whispered, then grinned and dropped the knife, which fell neatly into his grasp. However, just when his eyes glinted with what he construed as victory, she nicked the taut skin over his shoulder with the blade in her other hand.

“Bitch!” he hissed, and snatched the other knife away.

Arya gently pressed her lips to the forming trail of red from the cut, enjoying the metallic flavour of his blood. Both knives hit the ground with a clatter before Sandor abruptly seized the neck of her tunic in both hands and ripped the fabric. Arya yelped from surprise, and he chuckled. The cool castle air bit her skin, and his nails left marks on her chest, but she liked this game they played, and dragged his mouth back to hers as his warm, rough-skinned hand grabbed at one of her exposed breasts. She pulled off his shirt before reaching for his britches and shoving her hand inside to grab his hard member. The way Sandor tensed and tightened his hold on her made her head spin.

“Don’t make me wait any fucking longer, wolf girl,” he moaned.

“Don’t tempt me to,” Arya sighed as he yanked at her waistband.

They grappled and pawed to remove the rest of their clothing. She loved the way their skin melded, how they fit together. Sandor grasped a handful of her messy hair and made a hoarse sound as he thrust inside her. To stop herself from crying out, Arya bit his shoulder beside the place she had cut him. His blood was already drying on her lips. _I love you so much you’re part of my soul._

* * *

 

He had no idea what time it was. They had exhausted each other multiple times during the night. He suspected that there were open cuts in two places on his body, maybe a few bruises, but the bruises he had returned in kind. With sheets knotted around his ankle and feathers from his pillow floating around Arya’s head like a bloody halo, he suspected some time had passed. They were tired now, or at least he was. Her wolf-grey eyes were still bright and satisfied. If dawn was about to break, he would have to stumble around today, half asleep. Her breaths fell and rose contentedly, and she had a skinny arm, marked by his rough fingers, slung over his chest. Her leg was wrapped around his middle, her pubic hair resting softly against his hip.

“You fucking kill me, Arya Clegane,” he murmured against her forehead. Naturally, that earned him another jab.

“Call me that again and I will slice your tongue from your mouth,” Arya threatened.

He kissed the top of her head.

“Still meant it.”

“Valar morghulis,” she grumbled, but her forefinger was carelessly trailing a pattern around his nipple. Arya seemed quite happy to remain here for a while, sharing his body heat, and Sandor was hesitant to remind her that, perhaps sooner than they realised, morning would arrive. As if speaking exactly what was on his mind, she sighed. “We’re going to get up soon and nothing will really be any different.”

Sandor thought about it and shrugged. “If I have to die and burn forever in the seventh hell, at least the dead will know I was married to someone better than me.”

Arya raised herself up onto a bony elbow and cocked her head at him.

“Do you still believe there are seven heavens and seven hells?” she asked.

“…No. I don’t know. Might be.” Sandor marvelled at how pretty she was with her hair sticking up in all directions, and her lips pink. “The things I’ve seen lately…” he commented, “I’d believe we live in the eye of a fucking blue giant.”

Arya rested her head back down. “If there are seven hells, I’d search every single one just to find you and pull us both out of the fire. And if I can’t do that, then I guess we’ll just have to burn together.”

Somehow, that made him both terrified and aroused at once. He pulled his fierce she-wolf close and hoped never to see her die.

“…I fucking love you,” he said.

Arya’s voice was sad. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> THE END!  
> Hope you enjoyed! Do comment and leave KUDOS, and thanks for all the feedback.


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